13hrs, 20mins remaining

Theory: When you create a test, take it, and then triple the time. Allow that much time for students to complete the test.

Theory: When you create a scavenger hunt for your own children, divide the time it takes to create by three. Your children will complete the scavenger hunt in under that time.

seasonal offering

1. Refrigerate them.

2. Eat within three to five days.

3. Think about them, the verbal hiccups, ones mentioned too quickly, under-processed and ill-advised, because they're at the epicenter of this holiday season.

4. Just say, 'thank you' and go about the business of ushering the kids out of the restaurant and in to the minivan sporty manmobile. That middle-aged woman is sincere when she tells you in passing that the children are beautiful. She's sincere when she asks if all four are your children. You offer her one, jokingly of course, because you'd never give away your children, no matter how irritating they may be. She's a cautionary tale when she lets you know that she'd love one because she misses one, her only one, the one who died when he was eight, and that she remembers his smile, his waist-high hugs, his boundless energy, his love of trucks and puddles and his father. And I'm stuck on 'puddles' because 'his father' is the dig, the reminder, the cautionary tale.

5. Carry them, one by one, to the car.

dungeons and donuts

Had I had an answer as we drove through the tunnel, I would have surely had a better response to my son's question:

Do donuts live in tunnels?

And once again, I'm thinking about the creativity death clock that governs much of education.

the photo album

Can you believe that we're all standing here? Six of us, varying in height and balance.

Mark is walking over to the photo album. He finds the picture of the two of you. Can you see him? Feel him? I think he has some memories tucked away in his four-year old brain. When I remind him of moments past, he focuses on my eyes. His head skillfully positioned, and he is, I'm certain of it, listening. These stories matter to him. You matter to him.

You and Brian overlapped one day. A eerily perfect 24 hour cross-over. Brian, fading in. You, fading out. And both of you in the same building. Remember the picture we brought to you? He was so new, his eyes were still shut. I like to think that he was looking at a picture of you. His mind, coming to form, plowing through a familial rolodex, perusing images of those that came before him. Maybe that's what really happens at birth, a pre-loaded picture show begins, rooting each and every one of us to our ancestors.

And you're not seeing double. They're too young to understand. But they have the same cushy, padded photo album that's been passed down from child to child, and they see you. They see you holding Mark. They bite on the plastic protecting the pictures. It's just their way of exploring the world around them, of making meaning. I like to think it's there way of connecting. To you.

conversations at tombstones

Remember that time at the mall? We walked over to the customer service counter. You were holding an OP shirt, my birthday gift / token of middle school brand awareness. There were two people in front of us. You said:

"I think I should be first in line."

The cashier's blank stare. The jaw-dropping silence of the two African-American women waiting in line in front of us.

Grandmother, it's my please to introduce President-elect, Barack Obama.

Remember the Eagles game? They were playing the Giants. You would always sit in the same spot. You'd shout at the screen, something about monkeys. But we were watching football.


Grandfather, it's my honor to introduce you to President-elect, Barack Obama.

four dollars worth of perspective

So he had this pseudo-fit / obsessive thing going on the entire drive to The School House.

"We need to bring donuts!" over and over he exclaimed.

"But we neeeeeed to bring donuts!" he whined from North Wales to the Route 309 on-ramp.

And no matter how many ways, times, and styles I told him that donuts were provided, he would not relent.

So a box of 25 Munchkins accompanied us into The School House, me refusing to hold them, Mark more than happy to carry them, his cinnamon-coated trophies!

And Director Chris, why in all her years, she always sees something new.

The first time a student brought donuts for Daddy Donut Day.

"He's such a wonderful, thoughtful, special young boy," she says.

And I feel like an ass for fighting him on what turned out to be an exercise of altruism and selflessness!

do not open until 2033

Mark,

If I tell you something phenomenal happened earlier, I'm not sure what you'll think. You may accuse me of rampant hyperbole, or of making something grandiose that you view as mundane.

But when "the great state of New York" cast all of its votes, when 2/3 of the needed votes had been rendered, when Senator Obama received the official nomination, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed.

You'll tell me it's no big deal. You'll tell me that the issue of race is an antiquated topic; that there are larger, more pressing issues facing this country, this world.

And I'll still feel overwhelmed. That perhaps I've done right by you, that I've modeled acceptance, that what a person can do trumps the color of his or her skin, that some things should be simple, are simple, rightfully simple.

Something happened earlier, and it was phenomenal. But you'll tell me nothing spectacular happened, and that will be just as phenomenal.

Proud to be an American,
Dad

shiny, happy years

REM's new single is out and ready for download. Whoop-dee-doo, right?

Incorrect.

Back in the dark ages of the 80's, I became friends with a kid who attended a neighboring high school. We were bunkmates at the now defunct, but once best summer camp ever, Twin Oaks (long live Ga-Ga!).

The first time I went over to his house, he met me at the end of his driveway. We walked toward the house. He told me that his mother was an art therapist.

The house was filled with his mother's artwork... in every room...in every hallway. And each painting an homage to motherhood, depicting little fetuses nestled between motherly thighs.

Anyhow, here's the thing: prior to meeting this kid, my musical taste was extremely limited (read: Hot Hits 98.1 FM). I owned two cassettes, Thriller and Synchronicity. But this new-found friend had musical taste that Rand would have admired. He sifted through his albums, pulled one, and told me to borrow it.

Life's Rich Pageant

Now, I know that REM is too mainstream today. The move from IRS over to Warner Bros. was a big harbinger of commercialism, but hey, they had families to feed.

I listened to the album. Again. And again.

I wrote my 11th grade research paper on REM.

I own every album.

Why I like them isn't important, but what liking them has meant for me is of immeasurable value.

They show up with a new album at all the right moments:

• Document (1987) - date first girlfriend
• Green (1989) - graduate high school
  
• Out of Time (1991) - father's cancer goes into remission
• Automatic for the People (1992) - enter education program
• Monster (1994) - father re-marries
• New Adventures in Hi-Fi (1996) - begin teaching
• Up (1998) - officially begin dating Jess
• Reveal (2001) - marry Jess
• Around the Sun (2004) - birth of first child
• Accelerate (2008) - birth of identical twin girls
  

Consistency is a tough word. It just doesn't have the staying power that its definition rests its reputation on. But the spectrum of my life can cite only four examples of consistency, unwavering and well-timed:

1. Mom
2. Dad
3. Jess
4. REM

And as lame as it may sound, the four of them make my life complete.

But this list is bound to grow. The timely release of this most recent album will most assuredly cause the list to double.

One band. One wife. Two parents. Four children.

My life is timing, and REM, my well-timed alarm, awaking me to savor the moments in my life that have the most meaning and importance.

comments, meaningful

It's been a while, I know that. The last time we were together, we were eating dinner at your favorite restaurant.

It's been a while, I know that. The last time we were together, you were laying in bed and I was reading headlines from the paper to you.

It's been a while, I know that. The last time we were together, you were sitting in your wheelchair, holding Mark on your lap.

You ordered lamb chops. I remember thinking that they always seemed so difficult to consume, but you cut through them like a surgeon.

OJ Simpson articles covered the front page. Above us, the television silently replayed highlights of 'the chase'. You turned your head and I'm certain you looked at my hands. They were holding the paper, but you must've noticed that they were shaking.

Mark reached up and tried to grab your glasses off your face. You leaned back to the left and smiled. Mark immediately determined that you were playing a game with him. At one point, you called him Ken.

We never really spent time together, just the two of us. I remember sitting across from you and feeling like I barely knew you. What were we talking about? What did we ever talk about? Probably golf.

I stopped reading the headlines for a moment and I looked up and saw my father and his sister standing in the hallway, talking to one another. What could they really be talking about? They hugged one another and then they walked in to see us. I'm sure they knew we both needed them.

Even sitting on your lap, Mark could see the room with the bunny rabbits. He leaned forward. He wanted to stand and walk on his own accord over to Snickers and Bubbles. You reached out to pull him back to your lap, but he was too strong, too determined. And he was just over a year old.

I told you the story about Father's Day, 1991. The father-son tournament at Philmont Country Club. Dad had been diagnosed with cancer. He wanted you to still play. He offered me up as his replacement. You knew I was a horrible golfer.

Your two children, my father and his sister, flanked me. You had turned your head away from us. It looked like you were fixating on the ceiling. I asked them why your eyes were yellow; yellow like those you would see on a cat.

Mark was babbling to the bunnies. You were looking at him like you would never see him again. He looked at you. "I love you, Ken." I reminded you that Ken was my name and his name was Mark. "Who's Mark?" I should have listened to my mother and not corrected you.

On the 15th, I hit a good drive. You were sitting in the golf cart, waiting. I admired the flight of the ball and turned to you for a much-anticipated compliment. "Even a blind chicken gets some corn." That's the last thing I remember you ever saying to me. A heart attack two weeks later took all of us by surprise. Do you know that I use that quote all the time? It became the central element to my graduation speech I gave some years later. Everyone laughed. Later that night, I cried.

The morphine was doing its job. It not only eased the pain, it eliminated it. Turns out, you can't beat pancreatic cancer, but you can mute the pain of inevitable death. It was my turn to leave the room. A few hours later, my father told me that you had finally succumbed. My hands never stopped shaking that day. I know you knew.

Mark was due for a nap. How odd to think that I left for that reason. I placed Mark back on your lap and you went to hug him. I hope you know that he cried because he was tired, not because he was scared. We left. And you left two days later. I took Mark back to see the bunnies sometime after. "Mom-mom?" he asked when we arrived. You would've been so thrilled.

Today my wife and I learned that we are going to have identical twins. We spent the entire afternoon calling anyone and everyone we knew.

Sometimes, having one really big thing to share makes you realize that there are so many things you've neglected to share.

It's been a while, I know that.

I have so much to share.

I wish the three of you were here to listen.